


Telling Tales

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discontinued. There was a strange, wooden man living behind the biography section.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revolving Bookcases

She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to say anything, the first time she saw him. How did one exactly say anything about that sort of condition without hurting feelings, after all? It seemed the kind of thing that would breed conversations surrounding sore subjects, and if Belle was learning anything about this town now that she was a part of it, it was that sore subjects were something to be avoided by the majority of its population.

It had been an accident that she had ever seen him at all, really. Belle had been in the process of resorting a stack of biographies some of the children had used for a school report on “historical” figures, and had dropped a rather thick copy of Wilfred Von Beaumont’s life, stubbing a toe and crying as sixty-four years of impressive war exploits hit a nerve or three. That had led to Belle limping (rather pathetically, but she wasn’t in the mood to call it so) around the bookcase, leaning on a back wall that was hardly ever utilized, possibly because it revolved.

And revolving bookcases, Belle discovered, besides making a mess of perfectly arranged books, also lead to secret studies where secret wooden men were typing secret messages on an old typewriter….secretly. Falling through the bookshelf had led to Belle landing on the floor of said study, eyes widening as she looked up and met the eerie, lifeless stare of a large puppet.

Well, not quite a puppet. Puppets implied strings. This was a wooden man. There was a subtle difference there that she wasn’t quite sure of, but didn’t want to delve too deeply into all the same.

“I, um, I’m sorry-!” She started, not sure why she was apologizing to a wooden man for a variety of reasons. First of which, being that this was technically _her_ library now and if a wooden man wanted to take up residency behind the 900s section then he was going to, at the very least, need a library card. Second being that wooden men were not typically prone to being offended as they were…inanimate.

So Belle was quite surprised when the wooden man blinked, his wooden eyelids closing over painted eyes like a heavy shutter.

“What are you doing back here?”

Whatever shock that Belle felt was instantly removed by the question. What was _she_ doing back here? _She_ wasn’t the one lurking in the walls of a formerly abandoned library without permission. She had permission. Or, at least, Belle assumed it was permission. Something she should probably look into, as with all things concerning Rumplestiltskin, the assumed technicalities weren’t going to do anyone favors in the long run.

“I’m the librarian.” It seemed like an easy statement enough.

The wooden man tilted his head, “There’s a librarian?”

Belle chose that moment to straighten up off the floor. “Yes. A good one.” She bit on her lower lip, “At least, I think I make for a good one.” A moment of thought, “People read the biographies now.”

“Right.” The wooden man continued to stare, though Belle highly doubted he could do much else.

Belle cleared her throat. There were a series of unending questions, but her curiosity was always better served one step at a time. “I don’t mind if you live here, really. But you should fill out the necessary paperwork.”

“…Paperwork.”

Maybe he was a ventriloquist dummy of some sort? Belle nodded, squaring her shoulders and trying for her best professional librarian stance, “For the card.”

The wooden man’s fingers stopped their movement over the typewriter’s keys. “I’m not checking out any books.”

Belle gave a half smile, “All members of the library need a card. And if you’re going to be living here, I imagine that makes you eligible for one.”

“I’m not living here.”

“Then what are you doing?”

The wooden man’s wooden eyes drifted to the side for a moment. “…writing.”

“Then you can write as a member of the library,” Belle concluded, going back and pawing at the revolving bookshelf’s wall. It had to open somewhere…

“The copy of _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ ,” the wooden man offered.

She smiled gratefully, pulling the spine down towards her. The wall swung around. “Thank you. I’ll drop off the forms before I leave, you can leave them on my desk once they’re done.”

“I still don’t-“

“Thank you,” Belle finished, stepping through the wall, the pain in her foot forgotten.

After the bookshelf swung back into place, Belle leaned against a more stationary alternative with a heavy sigh.

That had been…odd.

She looked at the several books that had flown off the shelves once the thing had started spinning, now all laying haphazardly on the floor.

And messy.

* * *

The second time she saw him took a few more days, but Belle was pleased to see that when she returned the following morning a stack of papers had been neatly typed out and placed on the circulation desk. An application for a library card. Curious, Belle read it over before she even finished unlocking the building.

 **_Name:_ ** _August W. Booth_

 **_Age:_ ** _Well_

 **_Address:_ ** _920-940, Storybrooke Library_

 **_Phone Number:_ ** _The collected works of Robert Louis Stevenson (located in the biography section, you might want to reorganize)_

 **_Favorite Books:_ ** _Fiction_

The wooden man was definitely a strange one. And she did _not_ need to reorganize. Belle was no stranger to strange men, and there was enough here to laminate him a card. That had been a new process Belle had discovered during her time here- laminating. It was definitely interesting, and protected many a new library card from her spilled tea in the afternoons.

Belle finished the card, placed it in the middle of a copy of _Treasure Island,_ and left it on the floor in front of the bookcase. It was a little childish of her, but she smiled like an idiot when the book had disappeared the next morning.

The morning after that, a sole sheet of paper stating “Thanks for the card. And for forcing me to get one” in the stark, neat font of a typewriter was lying in the same spot.

Belle smiled, pulling out a spine, “You’re welcome,” she said to the thin gap in the wall.

After that, things progressed as they normally did. Belle busied herself with cleaning the shelves on Mondays, cataloguing the books on Tuesdays, and instituting story time for the children of Storybrooke on Wednesdays. On Thursdays, she had lunch dates- and so far, only lunch dates because she wasn’t ready for dinner dates and he was _definitely_ not ready for after dinner dates – with Rumpelstiltskin. Sometimes he would accompany her to the library afterwards. Fridays were spent as time to herself, the library usually quiet and still enough for her to get properly lost in a book that Ruby had borrowed her from her collection of “Mysteries and just mysteries”. The irony that she was reading a borrowed book in a library did not escape her.

That Friday, the first one since she discovered that she was not alone in the library because a wooden man was _living_ there, she decided that maybe this Friday shouldn’t be spent by herself. She was halfway in between the heroine solving a train murder and running into the arms of her co-inspector when Belle heard the distinct tapping of fingers on…Rumpelstiltskin had called them _keys._ It wasn’t an overpowering sound, and it didn’t distract her from her book, but it _did_ foster that infernal curiosity of hers.

Belle delicately placed a bookmark in her novel, setting it down on the desk.

Maybe wooden men liked tea? Dark ones certainly did. And dwarves. And werewolves. And she was sure her father, were she still on speaking terms with him, would have been absolutely scandalized at the odd assortment of company that she was starting to keep.

Clearing her throat, she walked slowly to her biography shelf. She noticed with no small amount of amusement that the shelf had a thin, wooden bar added to it that kept the books in place unless it was lifted up. A new addition. _Another_ new addition, anyways.

Belle did the only thing she could think to do.

She knocked.

Lifting back a spine of the book, Belle peeked in, “Hello?”

She saw a solitary candle, a shadowed figure next to it. The key-tapping stopped.

Feeling a little more brave and a little less awkward, Belle tried again, “Just seeing how my only tenant was doing…”

“He’s fine.” The voice was muffled, but clear.

“Would he…does he like company?” Belle grinned, “Or like being referred to in the first person?”

“First person wouldn’t be bad,” she heard the heavy sound of his footsteps as he walked over to the books, and Belle took a step backwards as _Dr Jekyll_ was pulled towards the other side of the shelf. The bookcase swerved around, and, feeling more than her share of forward, Belle took a step inside.

The lone work table now had some company. There was a small bed pressed flush against the wall, and a variety of bandanas and leather jackets strewn about. Belle vaguely wondered why a man who never left the biography section would be worried about matching outfits, but decided to credit it to a personality quirk. The typewriter was perched on a small wooden table, a small wooden chair pulled up next to it.

Where there stood the wooden man. _August._ Belle reminded herself.

“It looks cozy,” she offered, giving what she hoped was a friendly smile.

August didn’t smile, but the knot of what Belle suspected was cedar by the corner of his mouth rose slightly, “I hope I don’t need a card for the bed, too.”

Belle shrugged, “Possibly. But since I’m new at this, maybe this time I’ll let it slide.”

Both knots rose. There was a smile.

“I was expecting more of a…” August shrugged, his wooden shoulders creaking with the motion. Belle absently wondered if she should bring in some furniture oil for him. “Reaction.”

Belle, seeing that August wasn’t moving from his table, went and sat on his bed, “What sort of reaction?” She hadn’t been aware that she had given no reaction, after all.

“Normally people don’t react so calmly to…” he made a gesture with his hands that went from his shoulder to stomach, “All this.”

She chuckled, “I guess you should know that I’ve been called a strange girl then.” Belle paused, wondering how far politeness was supposed to go in this sort of situation, “Is that why you’re back here? Have people been cruel to you?” The thought made her frown.

August shook his head, “No. I expect there’s others here that people would rather be cruel to,” he walked with a heavy gait back to his work desk, taking a seat behind his typewriter.

Belle tilted her head, “Then do you have nowhere else to go?”

“No.”

“Any family?”

“Yes.”

Her nose wrinkled, as she grew utterly confused, “Friends?”

“One or two.”

Belle bit her lip. She wasn’t sure how to ask this, so… “Then why are you living behind the biography section?”

August stared at her, something that Belle discovered was distinctly unnerving with wooden, painted eyes, “I told you, I’m not living here.”

“You have a bed.” Beds implied a living space, after all. So did not leaving a place for a week.

“I’m writing,” he clarified.

Belle looked at the papers again. They were all blank. There was a small mountain of wadded up papers in the corner.

“Looks like it’s going well.”

August sighed. “Writer’s block.”

Belle tilted her head, “I hear going outside helps with that.”

The wooden man looked down, “I can’t go outside.”

“Why?”

He looked, again, straight at her. And Belle wondered what shade of blue his eyes would be if perhaps they weren’t made of cedar or pine or oak.

“…maybe I am hiding,” he conceded, then amended, “While I write.”

Belle felt maybe something close to the sting of sympathy, “Any particular reason?”

“I can think of a few.”

Silence stretched as Belle waited for an elaboration. It didn’t come. She smoothed her skirt out. And still silence.

“Were you…” She paused. “Were you always expecting a reaction?”

Something that looked very real, very _human_ flooded his eyes, and August turned down to his typewriter again, “Not for the same reasons, no.”

So he was cursed then. Or something very similar to it. And now he was writing something in the library where he perhaps didn’t live but definitely did hide in.

He started to type. Belle watched his wooden hands clack down on each key. “What- what are you writing?”

He looked up at her.

“A story.”

At first she thought him being purposefully rude, but then Belle saw the humor dart across his expression. “Well, that’s unexpected,” she leaned forward in curiosity, “What sort of story?”

August blinked, again his eyelids reminded Belle of heavy shutters, “I’m still working on that.”

“Hm,” Belle mused, “I’m something of an expert on stories. Perhaps I can help?”

“Are you always so…?” August trailed off, unsure of what to say after that.

Belle just laughed, a warm sound that filled the very dark and lonely room, “Yes. Absolutely.” First questions first, "Do you have any characters?"

The wooden man made a big sigh, something that she thought must be an affection, seeing as so far the wooden man hadn’t a need for food or drink, so breathing was probably something unnecessary as well, “Just the one.”

“What are they like?”

“He’s…” And again, Belle saw that strange, human emotion cross the face of the wooden man, “He’s a carpenter.”

And Belle looked at the wooden man, _really_ looked at him. His fingers were perfectly shaped, the joints of the wood sanded evenly. The texture of his hair and his stubble was whittled with breathtaking realism, and were he just wooden and not a wooden man, Belle would know he was something that had been crafted with care. Her mind also drifted to the clever bar that now rested on the revolving bookcase, the one that held all the books in when it spun.

Belle smiled, “Why don’t I grab us some tea, and you can tell me about him? Maybe then we can figure out the story that you want to tell.”

“I don’t…” August paused. “I don’t drink tea.”

Belle blanched, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me to assume-“

The wooden man laughed, “No, I mean. I prefer coffee.”

She froze, “Oh.” And then sighed, shaking her head, “That was rude of me to assume I was assuming then. How do you like it?”

“Black.”

“Making it easy for me,” she said, standing up and walking towards the bookshelf. Her hand was grasping _Dr Jekyll_ when the wooden man spoke again.

“Thank you. For…the coffee. And helping with the story.”

Belle paused, turning around, “Thank _you_ for building something that would keep the books in place. I can’t imagine why people would voluntarily want spinning shelving.”

August tilted his head, “You really are a funny girl.”

“Yes,” she agreed, easily enough as she pulled down the spine, “A funny girl whose name is Belle.”

“Belle,” August repeated slowly, as if he had heard it before but couldn’t place it.

“That’s right.” She paused before she made to leave and get their drinks, “It’s nice to actually meet you, August.”

“I hope so,” was all he offered as Belle stepped out of the space before the wall.

“I guess we’ll both find out. Now keep thinking about your carpenter character and I’ll be right back with the tea and coffee. I suspect we’ll get at least an outline done before the afternoon’s over, or I’m not a very good librarian.”

Belle vaguely registered the look of disbelief on August’s face as the shelves swung closed. She grinned to herself, the sound of her heels echoing in the quiet area of the library, as her mind drifted to things like tropes, idioms, and plot. And how it came to be that a wooden man’s story was about a carpenter.

 

And so it was, for the next few weeks, that every Friday Belle no longer had a day to herself but a day devoted to figuring out the story of the wooden man. Usually over scones and hot, caffeinated drinks.


	2. Lemurs and Gelato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter, sorry about that! Next chapter will have more characters making their way into the fic!

Belle was in the middle of listening to August talk about his latest character, a bespectacled man with an umbrella, when she set down her tea cup and asked a question that had been bothering her for a very long time.

"Don't you ever want to go outside?"

The wooden man stopped mid-sentence, and if the question hadn't have been so persistent, Belle would've felt bad about interrupting, "No. I've been outside."

Belle rolled her eyes, leaning forward in the chair that sat across the work table from his. She had brought it in after the third Friday, "Obviously, or you wouldn't have made your way inside. But don't you want to go out? Do something besides stare at a blank piece of paper?"

"…it's writing."

Belle rose her eyebrows, "It's sulking."

Again, August gave the affected sigh, "I can't leave. Not like-"

"Like?"

"Not…the way I am now," he amended. "Turns out, I'm sensitive to staring."

Belle hummed, tilting her head, "You're something of a liar, aren't you?"

The widening of his eyes was the only response she needed, but what followed merely confirmed it, "I'm not a liar."

"You  _are_ a liar," Belle confirmed, taking a thoughtful sip of tea, "I believe I have proof."

"What's that?"

"You know how last week you were telling me about your trip to Nepal?"

"Yeah?"

"And the lemurs?"

"You think I'm a liar because I talk about lemurs?"

"Lemurs aren't native to Nepal. I read about them."

"You read about lemurs?"

Belle bit her lower lip, "I was somewhat curious. But let's not derail the subject."

"I saw them at a zoo," August clarified, "Honest."

She snorted, "That's still misleading."

"But not lying."

Belle frowned, her grip on the tea cup tightening just a little, "Playing with words is the same as lying, you know. Just…a way of sidestepping the guilt."

August sent her a look of mock outrage, "First I'm a liar. Now I sidestep guilt."

"You are hiding in a wall."

Silence. August took a sip of his coffee and Belle tried hard this time not to listen to the sloshing noise it made as it traveled to his hollow stomach, "…what makes you think I'm guilty?"

"Because I don't think it's your…condition that makes you afraid to go outside," Belle stated simply.

"And you're an expert on my condition too, I take it?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, looking down, "…no. But I do know what a person who feels ashamed of himself, but also can't admit to it, looks like."

"Personal experience?"

"Of a sort."

"What sort of sort?"

"Why don't you go outside?"

He ran his hand through his hair, "Because."

Belle pursed her lips, "Can I offer some advice?"

August chuckled, shaking his head, "You've been doing it without permission for a few weeks now."

She smiled, hardly phased, "I don't think the ending to your story is going to come from my library."

" _Your_ library."

"I do operate it."

"Don't you mean the  _town's_ library?"

"Derailing again."

"I'm a dirty liar, I got it," August bit out, and Belle was intrigued by the sudden shift of tone. The harsh quality to the man's words filled the air, a tenseness settling over them that hadn't been there before.

"It's…it's alright to be a liar, sometimes," she offered, "Writers have to be liars. People…" she stared at her tea cup, "People don't want the truth as it is, most of the time. You have to go around it."

The wooden man looked down, not meeting her stare, "I'm. I'm not someone who lies to get people to the truth. I lie because it's…easier." He shook his head, "It's always been easier."

Belle smiled, "That's probably why you have writer's block, you know. The easy way out usually ends to it."

August chuckled, looking up, "You're a funny girl, you know that?"

"I've been told. Twice. By you," Belle sipped from her cup, "For what it's worth, I do think you need to go outside. If only for an hour. It can't be good for your mind, hiding in the dark all the time."

He frowned, staring at the tea cup as well, "Maybe. Later."

She nodded, "Later might be good. Now, why don't you tell me about Mr…Hopkins?"

"Hoppins."

"Right. Arnie Hoppins. He's the hero?"

August shook his head, "No, not really. The hero's…the hero's in the works. Arnie is more like the mentor figure."

"And a friend to the carpenter, yes?"

"Yeah. That's him."

"Well, I guess the first question about your plot is what they're going to do. Why tell a story about them? What haven't they done?"

His wooden fingers tapped against the table. Belle wondered if that meant they would be having good luck in the foreseeable future, "It's not really their story. I mean, they have their stories, but they can't be concluded without the hero's."

That was interesting. And not at all a…what had she been calling it, with Rumpelstiltskin? A projection.

"And this hero, what's he like?"

The tapping sound stopped, his fingers stilled, "He breaks things."

"Like a maniac?"

"No. He just. He's a weaker character. Circumstances get away from him."

"And these circumstances are affecting Hoppins and Gelato?" Belle paused, "I still think that's really not the name you want to go with for that character, by the way."

August gave a slump of his shoulders, "It's a working name. But yes, he needs to figure out how to fix…everything."

"Hm," Belle said, contemplating it. "I think it might be too much material."

"What?"

"You can't really expect one person to fix everything. That's too much. No one would believe that as possible."

August shook his head, "What he broke. He needs to fix it."

"You said it affects Hoppins and Gelato, right?"

"It does."

"Then I honestly think it would be a more compelling story if they were to get more involved. There's no…there's no  _meaning_ to one person doing everything. Real people aren't like that. They need each other," Belle shrugged, "It just doesn't seem likely that someone can completely change their behavior without a little support."

He was quiet for so long that Belle was beginning to worry if she was ruining his entire plot. Or perhaps initiating an existential crisis of some sort. It was hard to tell, with that thin line of projection.

"No. It has to be just him."

"Why?" She asked, just a little too sharply. Perhaps the projection concept was contagious.

"Because he's…stuck, otherwise."

"Stuck?"

August nodded, and his gaze drifted to his fingers as he made wooden joint by wooden joint curl into an equally wooden fist, "Stuck."

Belle cleared her throat, "If you ask me, part of that might be because he doesn't want to go outside."

He looked up sharply and gave a short laugh with no humor, "That obvious, huh?"

"A little," Belle admitted, "But then again…let's just say this particular plot is more like a re-read of sorts."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

August shrugged, "You're…the way you are."

"I hope that's not like gelato," she said flatly.

"No, I just have a hard time seeing you relating to…all this."

Belle drummed her painted fingernails against the table in a way echoing August's earlier motions, "Relating to what?"

"Being stuck."

She exhaled, "I was stuck for a  _very_ long time, Mr. Booth."

"Mr. Booth." He echoed with dry humor.

"You can call me Miss French if that helps."

"I think I prefer Belle."

"Good, me too. French was something that came with that whole…curse thing."

August stared at her for a few beats. Something that again made her wonder what was going on behind those painted blue eyes, because whatever it was, it seemed to be of a conspiring and enigmatic nature, "…do you know a Moe?"

Belle cleared her throat. She did  _not_ know a Moe. She knew a Maurice. Maurice would not have chained her to a cart or threatened to destroy her true love. Maurice…maybe Maurice wasn't as Maurice as she remembered. It had taken a while, but Belle was slowly coming to the realization that most girls did not decide their fate to eternal servitude just to show that they could, actually, decide  _something_ for themselves.

"Yes."

"Related?"

Belle offered an apologetic smile, pushing out her chair and standing up, "I'm sorry, I just remembered that there's going to be a few students coming in to work on a history project soon. I'll be back later?"

August nodded, but the stare he sent her spoke volumes for it being so…manufactured.

It was the sort of look that made Belle think, as her hand went to the leather spine of  _Treasure Island,_ that maybe she could understand why Oakley didn't want to go speak to Gelato.

 


End file.
